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NUMBER ONE.
I.

Yes, it look’d dark and dreary

That long and narrow street

Only the sound of the rain

And the tramp of passing feet

The duller glow of the fire

And gathering mists of night

To mark how slow and weary

The long day’s cheerless flight!
II.

Watching the sullen fire

Hearing the dreary rain

Drop after drop, run down

On the darkening window-pane

Chill was the heart of Bertha

Chill as that winter day

For the star of her life had risen

Only to fade away.
III.

The voice that had been so strong

To bid the snare depart

The true and earnest will

And the calm and steadfast heart

Were now weigh’d down by sorrow

Were quivering now with pain

The clear path now seem’d clouded

And all her grief in vain.
IV.

Duty, Right, Truth, who promised

To help and save their own

Seem’d spreading wide their pinions

To leave her there alone.

So, turning from the Present

To well-known days of yore

She call’d on them to strengthen

And guard her soul once more.
V.

She thought how in her girlhood

Her life was given away

The solemn promise spoken

She kept so well to-day

How to her brother Herbert

She had been help and guide

And how his artist-nature

On her calm strength relied.
VI.

How through life’s fret and turmoil

The passion and fire of art

In him was soothed and quicken’d

By her true sister heart

How future hopes had always

Been for his sake alone

And now, what strange new feeling

Possess’d her as its own?
VII.

Her home; each flower that breathed there

The wind’s sigh, soft and low

Each trembling spray of ivy

The river’s murmuring flow

The shadow of the forest

Sunset, or twilight dim

Dear as they were, were dearer

By leaving them for him.
VIII.

And each year as it found her

In the dull, feverish town

Saw self still more forgotten

And selfish care kept down

By the calm joy of evening

That brought him to her side

To warn him with wise counsel

Or praise with tender pride.
IX.

Her heart, her life, her future

Her genius, only meant

Another thing to give him

And be therewith content.

To-day, what words had stirr’d her

Her soul could not forget

What dream had fill’d her spirit

With strange and wild regret?
X.

To leave him for another

Could it indeed be so

Could it have cost such anguish

To bid this vision go

Was this her faith? Was Herbert

The second in her heart

Did it need all this struggle

To bid a dream depart?
XI.

And yet, within her spirit

A far-off land was seen

A home, which might have held her

A love, which might have been

And Life: not the mere being

Of daily ebb and flow

But Life itself had claim’d her

And she had let it go!
XII.

Within her heart there echo’d

Again the well-known tune

That promised this bright future

And ask’d her for its own

Then words of sorrow, broken

By half-reproachful pain

And then a farewell, spoken

In words of cold disdain.
XIII.

Where now was the stern purpose

That nerved her soul so long

Whence came the words she utter’d

So hard, so cold, so strong

What right had she to banish

A hope that God had given

Why must she choose earth’s portion

And turn aside from Heaven?
XIV.

To-day! Was it this morning

If this long, fearful strife

Was but the work of hours

What would be years of life

Why did a cruel Heaven

For such great suffering call

And why — O, still more cruel

Must her own words do all?
XV.

Did she repent? O Sorrow

Why do we linger still

To take thy loving message

And do thy gentle will

See, her tears fall more slowly

The passionate murmurs cease

And back upon her spirit

Flow strength, and love, and peace.
XVI.

The fire burns more brightly

The rain has passed away

Herbert will see no shadow

Upon his home to-day

Only that Bertha greets him

With doubly tender care

Kissing a fonder blessing

Down on his golden hair.
NUMBER TWO.
I.

The studio is deserted

Palette and brush laid by

The sketch rests on the easel

The paint is scarcely dry

And Silence — who seems always

Within her depths to bear

The next sound that will utter

Now holds a dumb despair.
II.

So Bertha feels it: listening

With breathless, stony fear

Waiting the dreadful summons

Each minute brings more near

When the young life, now ebbing

Shall fail, and pass away

Into that mighty shadow

Who shrouds the house to-day.
III.

But why — when the sick chamber

Is on the upper floor

Why dares not Bertha enter

Within the close-shut door

If he — her all — her Brother

Lies dying in that gloom

What strange mysterious power

Has sent her from the room?
IV.

It is not one week’s anguish

That can have changed her so

Joy has not died here lately

Struck down by one quick blow

But cruel months have needed

Their long relentless chain

To teach that shrinking manner

Of helpless, hopeless pain.
V.

The struggle was scarce over

Last Christmas Eve had brought

The fibres still were quivering

Of the one wounded thought

When Herbert — who, unconscious

Had guessed no inward strife

Bade her, in pride and pleasure

Welcome his fair young wife.
VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling

Although his eyes were dim

Thank’d God he thus could pay her

The care she gave to him.

This fresh bright life would bring her

A new and joyous fate

O Bertha, check the murmur

That cries, Too late! too late!
VII.

Too late! Could she have known it

A few short weeks before

That his life was completed

And needing hers no more

She might — O sad repining

What “might have been,” forget

It was not,” should suffice us

To stifle vain regret.
VIII.

He needed her no longer

Each day it grew more plain

First with a startled wonder

Then with a wondering pain.

Love: why, his wife best gave it

Comfort: durst Bertha speak

Counsel: when quick resentment

Flush’d on the young wife’s cheek.
IX.

No more long talks by firelight

Of childish times long past

And dreams of future greatness

Which he must reach at last

Dreams, where her purer instinct

With truth unerring told

Where was the worthless gilding

And where refined gold.
X.

Slowly, but surely ever

Dora’s poor jealous pride

Which she call’d love for Herbert

Drove Bertha from his side

And, spite of nervous effort

To share their alter’d life

She felt a check to Herbert

A burden to his wife.
XI.

This was the least; for Bertha

Fear’d, dreaded, KNEW at length

How much his nature owed her

Of truth, and power, and strength

And watch’d the daily failing

Of all his nobler part

Low aims, weak purpose, telling

In lower, weaker art.
XII.

And now, when he is dying

The last words she could hear

Must not be hers, but given

The bride of one short year.

The last care is another’s

The last prayer must not be

The one they learnt together

Beside their mother’s knee.
XIII.

Summon’d at last: she kisses

The clay-cold stiffening hand

And, reading pleading efforts

To make her understand

Answers, with solemn promise

In clear but trembling tone

To Dora’s life henceforward

She will devote her own.
XIV.

Now all is over. Bertha

Dares not remain to weep

But soothes the frightened Dora

Into a sobbing sleep.

The poor weak child will need her

O, who can dare complain

When God sends a new Duty

To comfort each new Pain!
NUMBER THREE.
I.

The House is all deserted

In the dim evening gloom

Only one figure passes

Slowly from room to room

And, pausing at each doorway

Seems gathering up again

Within her heart the relics

Of bygone joy and pain.
II.

There is an earnest longing

In those who onward gaze

Looking with weary patience

Towards the coming days.

There is a deeper longing

More sad, more strong, more keen

Those know it who look backward

And yearn for what has been.
III.

At every hearth she pauses

Touches each well-known chair

Gazes from every window

Lingers on every stair.

What have these months brought Bertha

Now one more year is past

This Christmas Eve shall tell us

The third one and the last.
IV.

The wilful, wayward Dora

In those first weeks of grief

Could seek and find in Bertha

Strength, soothing, and relief.

And Bertha — last sad comfort

True woman-heart can take

Had something still to suffer

And do for Herbert’s sake.
V.

Spring, with her western breezes

From Indian islands bore

To Bertha news that Leonard

Would seek his home once more.

What was it — joy, or sorrow

What were they — hopes, or fears

That flush’d her cheeks with crimson

And fill’d her eyes with tears?
VI.

He came. And who so kindly

Could ask and hear her tell

Herbert’s last hours; for Leonard

Had known and loved him well.

Daily he came; and Bertha

Poor wear heart, at length

Weigh’d down by other’s weakness

Could rest upon his strength.
VII.

Yet not the voice of Leonard

Could her true care beguile

That turn’d to watch, rejoicing

Dora’s reviving smile.

So, from that little household

The worst gloom pass’d away

The one bright hour of evening

Lit up the livelong day.
VIII.

Days passed. The golden summer

In sudden heat bore down

Its blue, bright, glowing sweetness

Upon the scorching town.

And sights and sounds of country

Came in the warm soft tune

Sung by the honey’d breezes

Borne on the wings of June.
IX.

One twilight hour, but earlier

Than usual, Bertha thought

She knew the fresh sweet fragrance

Of flowers that Leonard brought

Through open’d doors and windows

It stole up through the gloom

And with appealing sweetness

Drew Bertha from her room.
X.

Yes, he was there; and pausing

Just near the open’d door

To check her heart’s quick beating

She heard — and paused still more

His low voice Dora’s answers

His pleading — Yes, she knew

The tone — the words — the accents

She once had heard them too.
XI.

Would Bertha blame her?” Leonard’s

Low, tender answer came

Bertha was far too noble

To think or dream of blame.

And was he sure he loved her

Yes, with the one love given

Once in a lifetime only

With one soul and one heaven!”
XII.

Then came a plaintive murmur

Dora had once been told

That he and Bertha —” “Dearest

Bertha is far too cold

To love; and I, my Dora

If once I fancied so

It was a brief delusion

And over,— long ago.”
XIII.

Between the Past and Present

On that bleak moment’s height

She stood. As some lost traveller

By a quick flash of light

Seeing a gulf before him

With dizzy, sick despair

Reels to clutch backward, but to find

A deeper chasm there.
XIV.

The twilight grew still darker

The fragrant flowers more sweet

The stars shone out in heaven

The lamps gleam’d down the street

And hours pass’d in dreaming

Over their new-found fate

Ere they could think of wondering

Why Bertha was so late.
XV.

She came, and calmly listen’d

In vain they strove to trace

If Herbert’s memory shadow’d

In grief upon her face.

No blame, no wonder show’d there

No feeling could be told

Her voice was not less steady

Her manner not more cold.
XVI.

They could not hear the anguish

That broke in words of pain

Through that calm summer midnight

My Herbert — mine again

Yes, they have once been parted

But this day shall restore

The long lost one: she claims him

My Herbert — mine once more!”
XVII.

Now Christmas Eve returning

Saw Bertha stand beside

The altar, greeting Dora

Again a smiling bride

And now the gloomy evening

Sees Bertha pale and worn

Leaving the house for ever

To wander out forlorn.
XVIII.

Forlorn — nay, not so. Anguish

Shall do its work at length

Her soul, pass’d through the fire

Shall gain still purer strength.

Somewhere there waits for Bertha

An earnest noble part

And, meanwhile, God is with her

God, and her own true heart

I could warmly and sincerely praise the little poem, when Jarber had done reading it; but I could not say that it tended in any degree towards clearing up the mystery of the empty House.

Whether it was the absence of the irritating influence of Trottle, or whether it was simply fatigue, I cannot say, but Jarber did not strike me, that evening, as being in his usual spirits. And though he declared that he was not in the least daunted by his want of success thus far, and that he was resolutely determined to make more discoveries, he spoke in a languid absent manner, and shortly afterwards took his leave at rather an early hour.

When Trottle came back, and when I indignantly taxed him with Philandering, he not only denied the imputation, but asserted that he had been employed on my service, and, in consideration of that, boldly asked for leave of absence for two days, and for a morning to himself afterwards, to complete the business, in which he solemnly declared that I was interested. In remembrance of his long and faithful service to me, I did violence to myself, and granted his request. And he, on his side, engaged to explain himself to my satisfaction, in a week’s time, on Monday evening the twentieth.

A day or two before, I sent to Jarber’s lodgings to ask him to drop in to tea. His landlady sent back an apology for him that made my hair stand on end. His feet were in hot water; his head was in a flannel petticoat; a green shade was over his eyes; the rheumatism was in his legs; and a mustard-poultice was on his chest. He was also a little feverish, and rather distracted in his mind about Manchester Marriages, a Dwarf, and Three Evenings, or Evening Parties — his landlady was not sure which — in an empty House, with the Water Rate unpaid.

Under these distressing circumstances, I was necessarily left alone with Trottle. His promised explanation began, like Jarber’s discoveries, with the reading of a written paper. The only difference was that Trottle introduced his manuscript under the name of a Report.